Hope was a fragile thing. And Marcerov knew exactly how to shatter it.
While Zareena and her mages studied the heat beneath the hills, the enemy moved in silence. No siege towers. No howling wolves. Just whispers, coins, and poisoned promises.
The man arrived three days after the scouts returned, calling himself Father Vellin—a priest in exile, with a soft voice and mournful eyes. He claimed he'd fled a village burned by bandits. Said he'd served under the Temple of the Silver Star, now gone to ruin.
He asked nothing. Took little. Preached often.
He spoke of humility, duty, and divine peace. His words soothed the frightened. The wounded liked him. Even the guards began to smile again at his prayers.
But Zareena watched him closely.
One night, she sat in the great hall, watching him lead a prayer service. His voice was gentle, reverent. But it was too polished. Too rehearsed. And she noticed something else—how he lingered near the grain cellars. How the soldiers he blessed began falling ill one by one.
Not death. Not yet.
Just sickness. Enough to make them weak. Doubtful. Tired.
It was Old Doren who finally confirmed her suspicion, through blood-magic and a brittle curse-breaking scroll.
"The man's no priest," he rasped. "There's blood on his tongue and poison in his hands. He's turning your strength against you."
Zareena didn't flinch. "Then we end it. Quietly."
That night, the false priest was taken to the dungeons below the keep.
The people were told he had returned to the monastery in the mountains.
But Zareena knew better: Marcerov was done testing her walls. Now, he was testing her people.
And war fought with whispers could be far more dangerous than any sword.